


One Day

by Angelattes



Series: Holiday fics n stuff [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Contest Entry, Genji Shimada is NOT a little shit, Hanzo Shimada has Prosthetic Legs, Hanzo Shimada is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Manipulation, pride month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24650575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelattes/pseuds/Angelattes
Summary: Hanzo was.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Series: Holiday fics n stuff [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782274
Comments: 4
Kudos: 95





	One Day

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! This is my entry for Overwatch Amino's PrideWatch writing contest! I tried to make something more unique, so the pride theme is more spread out throughout the fic and subtle, but it's there! I hope you guys like it!
> 
> This has not been beta'd. Any typos are my mistake. If you see any please let me know. <33
> 
> Edit: I won first place! Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed this. You all mean the world to me. I love you guys!

Hanzo was still a babe in his mother's belly when the clan decided that he would be disciplined and groomed to run the Shimada family business one day. Everyone had high hopes and rejoiced for the heir.

Hanzo was three years old when his baby brother, Genji, was born. The child was tiny and sweet, and Hanzo knew he wanted to protect him from all things scary like thunderstorms and monsters that hide under the bed.

Hanzo was five years old when he began to practice combat and martial arts. He struggled to keep from hitting his arms with the nunchucks, accidentally dropped his bow staff, and his form was, according to his father and instructors, absolutely atrocious.

"Why do I train?" Hanzo asked one day, foam-padded nunchucks dangling from his small hand and dragging on the matted floor.

"Because, Hanzo," His father spoke, his voice gentle but strong, security in his tone, "you will one day take over when I am gone. You will wed and birth an heir of your own. You will do great things one day. You must only believe and push yourself towards those achievements." After the conversation, Hanzo walked away feeling confused but excited. He would do great things one day.

One day.

Hanzo was seven years old when he struck his first bullseye with his bow and arrows, and he felt like the king of the world. Genji beamed and clapped for him, cheering loudly beside their mother who smiled softly. Her smile wrote novels and moved mountains, and pride swelled up in his chest even further. Then his father stepped up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, praising him for the achievement. Hanzo learned that he wanted to hear such words from his father more often, who very seldomly even gave out the smallest of compliments. Hanzo would strive to be the best.

Hanzo was ten years old when he developed his first crush. He and Genji had run up to the local arcade on their break from training. A boy not much older than Hanzo had told him he liked his outfit, consisting of a light blue and white gi with pale gold embellishments, matching pants, and grey boots. The young Shimada heir stumbled over his words, thanking the mystery boy before he left to go play on one of the game machines. Hanzo watched him go. He felt that same swell in his chest from his father's praise, but it was different. It made his cheeks feel odd and tingly and his chest warm like a fire bloomed alight in his ribcage. He didn't understand it. He asked his mother as he sat in front of her on his bed, his back to her as she combed through his shoulder length locks.

"I would say you're experiencing your first love," she said, followed by a chuckle, but Hanzo pouted and shook his head. She gently placed a hand under his chin to still him, then continued to brush away the tangles.

"I can't be in love!" He cried, crossing his arms.

"Why not?" She hummed.

"Because I'll have to get married when I grow up, and father says it won't be my choice who!" His mother frowned at this and took his jaw once more, turning his head towards her.

"Look at me, love." He did.

"You are not bound to one script or story. Your father and the clan do not write your narrative; you do." Her words were simple, but he was sure he understood. Perhaps this would be okay, at least for a short while. She kissed him goodnight. He dreamt about arcades and boys with hair like amber and eyes like oceans.

Hanzo was fourteen when he went on his first date. A different boy, a foreigner with blond hair and grey eyes. His name was Anthony. He was a transfer student from Canada, with a bright smile and freckles smattered over his nose and cheeks. He had a bit of an accent and stumbled over some words when he spoke Japanese, but Hanzo found it endearing rather than bothersome. They had gone to the small ramen shop near the Shimada castle, chattered and laughed. Hanzo helped him with his Japanese, and Anthony practiced English with Hanzo in return. After, they ran across the street to the arcade and played for hours. Hanzo swore he'd never been happier as he left that night, his lips a touch redder than they had been before.

Hanzo was fourteen when he had his first kiss.

Hanzo was fourteen when his mother died. He stayed strong in the open like his father, not letting weakness show. Weakness opened up opportunities for pain. However, Hanzo was weak that night. He wept and mourned and combed his hair with the same comb his mother used on him growing up, now reminiscing over the metal grazing against his scalp and the effortless way she tugged tangles from his hair. She understood him. Now he had no one.

Hanzo was fifteen when he lost his second love.

His father had discovered his "infatuation" with Anthony. Shimada Sojiro had turned into a cruel, ruthless man since his wife's death, pushing Hanzo harder and harder. Hanzo had refused to stop seeing his lover, however. He could have never imagined the horrific outcome.

At his feet knelt the boy who captured his heart, gagged and bound like he was nothing more than a mark of dirt on the Shimada name, a scuff of blood on the heel of Sojiro's boot. His father placed a sharp katana in Hanzo's trembling hands, the teenager's breath bitten behind clenched teeth.

Anthony looked all too accepting of his fate, head lowered with those soft blond locks hiding those eyes that reminded Hanzo of rain on a stormy day.

"This is your duty, Hanzo."

Hanzo was fifteen when he took the life of one he loved for the first time.

Hanzo was seventeen when he told his brother he did not wish to wed. He did not love women, not like how his family wished him to, and he poured his heart out to the only one who would not judge him. He mourned for his future wife, who would have to bear children for a man who did not love her. He mourned for his future self, as well, who would be stuck in the same role as his father, reigning with a wife he did not want and an empire he was growing to despise.

Genji pitched the idea of running away. Hanzo shot it down as soon as it was airborne. They would both be severely punished if they were caught, which he knew they would be. He did not want his brother to suffer.

Hanzo was eighteen when he received his dragons, a pair of twins, and he was declared a man. It had been the first time in many years that a Shimada had received multiple of the ethereal creatures, and a celebration was had. He sat for hours as ink was etched into his skin, bonding the dragons to his person. He knew he should have been happy. He was not.

Hanzo was nineteen when he lost his legs to an unfortunate event involving a rival clan. It was at his favourite spot, a small, mostly bare area overlooking the city with sakura trees dotted around the edge. He didn't remember much, just a loud boom and darkness, then he woke up and learned his legs were gone. It took months to get prosthetics, and even more months to get used to walking again and taking care of the stubs left behind. He learned to deal with the phantom pains.

Hanzo was twenty when he lost his brother. He was told the young man had no more chances. His seventeen year old brother sought out far too many physical vices, messed around at one too many clubs, and stumbled home with mussed up clothes and a nearly empty bottle of alcohol more times than could be counted. The clan decided that Genji was irredeemable and soiled the Shimada name with his shenanigans, and Hanzo was ordered to 'rid them of the problem.' Their father said it was his duty.

He should have said no. He should have refused and run away with Genji, protected him like he swore to since his sibling's birth. The thought plagued him, his body shook with tremors. Genji smiled at him and turned his back to Hanzo, telling him that he was going to go out and to not tell their father, holding a finger to his lips.

Hanzo was twenty when he mutilated his brother, taking the life of someone he loved for a second time.

Hanzo was twenty when he vowed to never touch a sword again, only to rely on his stormbow, the one thing in his home that was clean of betrayal.

Hanzo was twenty one when his father died. He did not feel sadness.

Hanzo was twenty five when he escaped from the clan's clutches and swore to dismantle it from the inside. He worked slowly, inconspicuously, until the great Shimada empire fell to its own inner turmoil.

He took mercenary hits, using the one thing he was good at, hurting others, to his advantage. It was what his father had done, albeit in a different way, but it weighed on Hanzo's shoulders all the same. He was alive, he was making a living, but he, himself, felt numb to it all.

Hanzo was thirty two when he decided he would never fall in love. He did not deserve such a luxury, and no one would be able to love someone who had committed such treacherous acts as he had. Countless people fallen by his hand, fratricide at the top of the list, did not paint such a lovely picture.

Hanzo was thirty eight when a cyborg who claimed to be his brother paid him a visit. The Shimada empire had attempted to build itself up once more, but it was terribly weak, and Hanzo had been able to sneak and fight past their defenses effortlessly to pay his respects to his fallen brother each year. The cyborg sounded so much more mature than his baby brother, so sure and confident, but he wielded the same dragon Genji had. Hanzo had called for his own, but their sister easily convinced them to turn and chide their master for his actions.

"I have forgiven you. Now you must forgive yourself. Think on that, brother."

So he did.

Hanzo was thirty eight when he joined Overwatch. His brother had invited him, seeing it as an opportunity to provide his older sibling with redemption as well as a chance to rekindle the friendship and brotherhood they had as children. Hanzo scoffed at the idea, thought him a fool, but he agreed, regardless.

He hadn't expected to be welcomed with open arms, and he wasn't. Many of the agents avoided him like the plague, and he wasn't as put off by it as he probably should have been. He had grown into a lone wolf due to his upbringing, finding solace in solitude. Even so, he would be lying if he said their obvious disdain towards him didn't bother him just a little, no matter how much he knew he deserved it.

No one was outright rude, necessarily, but he could tell they didn't like him. He was observant.

Well, actually, one person was very clear about his opinion of Hanzo, and that was Agent McCree. He couldn't find it surprising; the man was certainly living up to the 'loud and abrasive Americans' stereotype, and he was pretty sure McCree had subtly threatened him on multiple occasions. He was fine with that. The cowboy was just one other name on a long list of people who despised Hanzo and everything he was.

Time passed. Hanzo had been there six months, and some of the members had shown him kindness, didn't turn their shoulder at him or talk when they thought he couldn't hear them. Hana had started inviting him to game night (which he refused politely most of the time), Mei discussed her love of weather and nature, and he pleasantly surprised her when he started to rattle off facts about space and constellations, and Lena, who had been one of the initial people to ignore him often, actually started to be the first to ask about sparring with him. One of the new medical recruits, Baptiste, even went to the gym with him sometimes. Everyone else acted the same.

Hanzo woke up with a jolt and a gasp, his body wracked with tremors, tears pricking at his eyes. Another night terror, another sleepless night full of futile attempts to cease the fear and the darkness that always came back to bite him.

When Hanzo finally got enough of a grasp on himself to ensure he would not collapse the moment he stood, he tied the strings of his sweatpants and pulled on a loose tank top, leaving his room to fix some tea and sit outside. The base was quiet, and for once Hanzo felt unsettled. He tried to ignore it and brewed a cup of green tea, then stepped outside into the cool Gibraltar air, the scent of the sea invading his nostrils and making him feel a little bit better. He always loved the ocean. It was beautiful and calming.

He trudged up the stairs of the communications building, tired from a short and fitful sleep, and was about to sit down when he smelled the familiar scent of smoke.

McCree was already sitting on the edge of the communications roof, legs dangling off the edge with a cup of something in his hand and earbuds shoved in his ears.

Hanzo nearly turned around and-

"I know you're there." Well, that plan was out the window. Hanzo sighed, raised his chin and straightened his posture as he ascended the rest of the stairs. McCree took one of the earbuds out, glancing over at Hanzo with a slight look of surprise.

"I was expectin' one'a the kids or somethin'."

"You were mistaken."

Silence. Then a sigh.

"Sit down here," McCree broke the quiet first, and Hanzo obliged, sitting next to the cowboy with his tea. This was highly unusual, and Hanzo was now on alert.

"Y'drink tea? Not all that surprisin', I s'ppose. Ya seem like someone who'd prefer something fancy shmancy."

"Whiskey isn't much better. Such unsophisticated tastes, though I should not be surprised when it involves that same man who wears spurs and chaps like a modern Clint Eastwood." Hanzo didn't _know_ it was whiskey, but by how many times someone around base would mention McCree's attachment to it, it wasn't an unreasonable assumption. He figured a small jab wouldn't hurt. And if McCree got mad about it, well, so be it.

But time stilled and Hanzo's eyes went wide. McCree laughed. It wasn't snide or rude or sarcastic. It was a genuine, true laugh that would always be directed to Genji or Lena or Lúcio, but not Hanzo. Never Hanzo.

Until now. Hanzo held his cup a little tighter as McCree's laughter died down to a soft chuckle and small smile. He noticed the cowboy had dimples in his cheeks and the lightest freckles over his nose, almost invisible against the tan expanse of his skin.

"So, I've been thinkin'... Well, I've been a right ass to ya, huh?" McCree suddenly spoke, a hint of bashfulness to his tone.

"You haven't been the… Most corigal," Hanzo murmured in reply.

"I've been talkin' ta Genji, and… I'm not a good person. I've done things bad enough to place a multimillion bounty on my head, so I guess I'm not in any place to judge."

"And you are telling me this at three in the morning?"

"Just- let me finish my damn apology, all right?" McCree huffed, and Hanzo nodded.

"Very well."

"So I talked to Genji. He pointed out some things and, well… We ain't too different, you and me. D'ya think we could maybe start over?" Hanzo thought it over. Having one less enemy would certainly be nice.

"Yes."

McCree's face split into a wide grin and he tipped the brim of an invisible hat.

"A pleasure t'meet ya, darlin'. The name's Jesse McCree."

Soon it became a thing. Sometimes it would be just one of them staring at the distant stars while drinking saké or whiskey or tea, but sometimes it would be both of them. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they didn't, and their acquaintance melded into friendship.

They began to train together. They would bet on who could hit the most shots within a given time, would have Athena set a timer, and the loser would have to make breakfast for a week or buy the winner's choice of alcohol. Things were slowly getting better.

Hanzo almost didn't notice the change; how he began to linger in McCree's presence a touch more often, sought him out when he didn't want to be alone, how he would watch with this tiny spark of awe in his eyes when McCree would bust into a bright laugh or would shamelessly flirt with him like he did with everybody. It was just who Jesse was.

Hanzo was thirty eight when he fell in love with Jesse McCree.

Genji knew. Lena knew. Hana knew. They could read him, his brother better than anyone else. Genji encouraged Hanzo to confess. He didn't. Hana pushed him to ask McCree on a date. He didn't.

Then, right before they were to part for a mission, Lena bounced over to him with one of her eager, bubbly smiles. She had something in her hand.

"Is there something you require, Agent Oxton?" He asked, looking up at her from his holopad. She took one of his hands and placed something small and metal in it: a rectangular pin with rainbow stripes painted diagonally across. He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. He knew what it stood for, but why was she giving it to him?

"Be proud of who you are, love. Let him know he has a chance," she offered as if she could read his mind, then ran off to the front of the Orca to prepare for liftoff.

Be proud. He had always been ashamed that he couldn't be the perfect son, and now he was everything but. It was okay, he decided. He was starting to be happy. He didn't need the clan's approval. He didn't need his father's praise. He just needed himself. He needed his own acceptance.

He pinned the tiny flag to the breast pocket of his jacket, a black and blue thing with a high neckline, baggy pants with ridiculous vertical pockets that Genji had picked out, and brown boots. He had even cut his hair, too, and gotten a few piercings to symbolize the change in his life. The flag was an extra pop of colour, an extra piece that helped tie together the outfit, making its new home next to a Japanese flag pin. They represented him. They were a part of him, his past, present, and future.

And he smiled.

Hanzo was thirty eight years old when he started to really be proud of the man he had become.


End file.
